


Poetry

by jujubeans



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Basically lots and lots of sexy times, Eyeliner!Sherlock, Feels, Filthy dance moves, First Time, Flirting!Sherlock, God these two are shamelessly cute, Grinding, Happy Ending, How They Get Together, M/M, New Relationship, Piercings, Rimming, Sherlock kills John with his observation skills, Yes Atlin - Rimming!, all the feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-11 22:10:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19118683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubeans/pseuds/jujubeans
Summary: Sherlock wants John.  John doesn't stand a chance in HELL of resisting him.  Body parts might be pierced.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts), [221b_hound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/gifts).



> OOoooh boy. Started this years ago when I first heard Sia's, "Move Your Body". First thing I thought of was Sherlock on a dance floor, taunting John with his sexy moves. Listen to the song (don't watch the clip, just picture Sherlock) and come back and read.
> 
> Four chapters - already written and edited, so no chance of abandonment. One small chapter a day for three days, then the pay-off on the fourth with a loong one.
> 
> Atlin and 221b - you inspire me every time I remember you insisting, "Just write. Just sit at the computer and type. Something good will come."  
> Best.  
> Advice.  
> Ever.  
> Love love love. You.

### Chapter One: Prelude

#### The Flat

“Sherlock! Thank God you’re home – get in here. This gear you left on my bed…..I can’t go out in this! I look like a tosser.” John tugs uncomfortably at his shirt, and tries to dig a finger under the centre seam of his trousers, which are trying to migrate up his arse, taking his pants along for the journey.

Behind him, Sherlock huffs and fusses and knocks John’s hands away.

John stands stiffly, staring at himself in the mirror while Sherlock circles him like a shark, humming and hawing. 

“Hmmmm. Perhaps…”

Long, supple fingers inch around from behind his body toward John’s straining buttons. John stares, unmoving, like a stunned mullet, hypnotised by the encroaching Fingers-Of-His-Fantasies. Those looong, slender digits have been featuring in John’s rather heated nocturnal musings for some time now. Upstairs, in his private moments – the very few Sherlock _allows_ him – they roam and map John’s skin as if they were committing it to memory for future sculpting, they touch as if John’s skin were braille poetry, his elegant fingers sensitively skimming, reading the words of yearning on John’s body. Right now, however, in the real world, as he stares so hard he goes cross-eyed, the Fingers-Of-His-Fantasies are about to make contact with the tiny pieces of plastic currently holding his modesty together. Target acquired, Sherlock fastens the button over his collarbone, knuckles brushing his suddenly damp skin. John shivers.

“There,” Sherlock rumbles in his ear, satisfied with his adjustment. “That’s infinitely better.”

John blinks himself to life. “Sherlock,” John protests, peering concernedly at the straining buttons, “that makes it look even _tighter._ I never wear clothes this tight. This is much more _you_ than _me._ I feel like an idiot.”

“Don’t be boring, John. It shows-off the musculature of your chest. If you’ve got it, flaunt it. Now…” he claps his hands together and holds the fingertips under his chin, gazing speculatively at John’s hair. _The musculature of your chest?_ Was Sherlock complimenting him?! At the thought, John shivers again. “Are you OK, John? Are you cold? I can assure you, this fabric will feel all too hot when we get to where we’re going.” Sherlock reaches out and runs The Fingers through John’s hair, elegantly mussing it in a way that John wouldn’t be able to manage with a mirror, product and half an hour. John stands there submissively, overawed at all this Sherlockian attention.

“OK, that’s that. You’re perfect. I’ll just be a few minutes and then we’ll go.” Sherlock whirls and strides toward the bathroom. John stands rooted to the spot, stuck in stunned-mullet mode. _Perfect?_ John’s head finally inches away from the mirror, following Sherlock’s progress down the hall. His mouth falls open; what was Sherlock wearing?! Or perhaps he should wonder, ‘what was wearing Sherlock’? He’d thought his own clothes were close-fitting but this get-up was so tight it brought new meaning to the word. If it squeezed him much firmer Sherlock’d transform to diamond. 

John had been staring so hard at himself in the mirror, so wrapped up in feeling out of place in the very tailored, very fashionable clothes Sherlock had left on his bed, that he had completely missed the fact that Sherlock himself was dressed to kill. Skin tight, midnight blue, arse-hugging jeans ending in boots that look so expensive John can only imagine how many people worked on them by hand. Polished to a deep burnish, the leather hugs his feet lovingly. The tips are covered in pointed metal toes studded with spikes, while chains hang in loops between the top eyelet and the centre-back of the heel. When Sherlock lifts his foot to pivot into the bathroom John spies a traditional Japanese samurai image embedded in the sole in colour. How expensive do shoes have to be to have patterns burned into the bloody sole?!

But all this is nothing compared to the shirt. Oooooh the shirt. Innocuous enough from the front – if you ignore the fact that the fluorescent lighting emanating from the bathroom renders it sheer – the back is a ladder of lateral rips and tears that shows more skin than it covers. Waaay more. The creamy skin of Sherlock’s endless back is there for John’s eyes to feast upon, for his imagination to _gorge_ upon. 

John takes a few moments to squeeze his eyes shut and breathe deeply, summoning tranquillity. He forces his eyes open just in time to see Sherlock emerge from the bathroom. As clenched shut as they had been before, they now stretch so wide his eyeballs are in danger of bugging out of their sockets.

“Come along, John.”

Sherlock prowls toward him like a catwalk model, all haughty and heavy-lidded eyes… _lined_ eyes. Silvery-green eyes rimmed with smudged kohl glint at him, peering down a nose decorated with a ring in the left nostril. Seeing John’s expression, an eyebrow punctured with a spiked flex rises knowingly, as a mouth smirks up at one side: a mouth whose bottom lip is penetrated by a ring, a captive ball nestled lovingly against the plump lower edge. Purple chalk slashed through his artfully messy locks, giving him a thoroughly debauched bedhead. All in all, Sherlock is hottestfuckingsexJohncouldeverimagine-on-legs.

### 


	2. Chapter 2

### Chapter Two

#### The Club

John must have briefly gone off-line, because the next thing he knows, he is standing in the foyer of a club. Sherlock is behind him, relieving him of his coat and handing it to the rather menacing-looking attendant. As he blinks his way back up to the surface, he feels Sherlock’s hands either side of his ribs, sliding smoothly upwards, until they curve around to cross over his chest. John goes to turn his head to see what the bloody hell the git is up to, but is arrested by said git’s chin dropping onto his shoulder, and a rumbling baritone purring, “What shall we induuulge in first, Joooohhn?”

Blink. Blink.

Perhaps he hadn’t quite hit the surface, yet.

While John is struggling with reality vs fantasy, Sherlock leans in, busses a kiss on his cheek, slithers around in front of him, grabs his hand and takes off for the dance floor. Bodies snake and twist sinuously around them, pulsing with the beat like one, huge, swaying beast, each swept up in the collective rise and fall of the tide. Dazed, John peers up at Sherlock, transfixed at the sight of the diaphanous fabric clinging to Sherlock’s febrile frame. Sweat already runs down his body, forging a glistening path between his pectoral muscles. 

John shakes his head. He is aghast at himself for staring so openly and lustfully at Sherlock. Surely the detective would be noticing by now, the fact that he was acting like a besotted, drunken idiot. They were here to do a job, and that was- Shit! While he was caught up in the intoxication that is pierced and kohled Sherlock, he’d completely forgotten to ask him what case they’re working! He tilts his head to enquire only to find hooded eyes quietly intent on his face.

“Uh, Sherlock…” Sherlock raises a spiked brow. John leans in to shout, “What’s the case?”

The spike lowers and a crease forms adjacent to it. Plush lips form a moue of annoyance as Sherlock shakes his head and dances on. John’s about to demand an answer when he realises they may well be being observed right now, and decides to follow whatever lead Sherlock offers. He knows how dangerous it can be to fish for information out in the open: memories of a singed ear causes John to rub absent-mindedly at his helix. Ad-libbing on the fly it is.

As John glances around, the thumping song segues into the next, a deep, pulsing heartbeat of a noise, powering up through his feet to resonate in his core. It’s an Aussie’s song, well, a remix anyway. He recalls hearing it live in Sydney when it was first released. The singer was on tour back at home, and they were untangling an intrigue set up by a demented fan. As her voice throbs lowly through the speakers, he remembers thinking she had the best belly laugh he’d ever heard.

_Poetry in your body_  
_You got it in every way_  
_And can't you see it's you I am watchin'_  
_I am hot for you in every way_

God. He’d forgotten the lyrics. He remembers now how appropriate they were to his one-sided obsession with Sherlock.

_And turn around, let me see you_  
_Wanna free you with my rhythm_  
_I know you can't get enough_  
_When I turn up with my rhythm_

Agh. Now he remembers tossing off that night to the thought of running his hands all over Sherlock while the detecting angel danced in front of him. Droplets of cold water suddenly sprinkle down on John’s face, making him jump guiltily at his carnal thoughts. 

Whilst John had been reminiscing, Sherlock had danced them over to one of the four columns on the dance floor supporting a large frame high above the crowd, that sporadically releases a fine mist of water over the undulating, fevered bodies. With his eyes closed, wrists crossed above his head, fingers gently curled, Sherlock writhes sinuously against the column, making John think his spank bank had bought a projector and was screening a session of his Top Five. Shoulders and wrists pressed to the column’s shaft, lower torso making lateral figure of eights in John’s general direction, the mist drizzles its way through the air to kiss his lovely, toned belly where the thing passing as a shirt has ridden up to expose a fine trail of damp hair, disappearing into the inky depths of the jeans. “Fuuuuucck,” John whispers.

Sherlock’s eyes pop open. A slow smirk curls his lips and John has the feeling his life is about to change. Is this what it feels like to be on the receiving end of Sherlock’s sexual attention? As if the entirety of his colossal focus has zeroed-in on you, at the expense of everything else in the world? As if he likes what he sees and is gearing up to pounce? A frisson of unease rattles down John’s spine. Reality drips in with the water, cooling his ardour. This isn’t real. Someone is probably watching them, and Sherlock is putting on one of his superb performances. Summoning some grit, John clenches his jaw, pushes back a half step, looks Sherlock in the eye and dances on.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. The perceptive organs shift over John’s body quickly. His mouth tightens. Leaning forward, he drops his head down to John’s ear and with lips touching the whorls, murmurs, “It is, you know”.

“…What?”

“It is. Real.”

“Sherl-“

“You think it’s an act, but it’s not.”

“I don’t-“

“John. You were doing quite well. You were relaxed and easy, watching me move, running your eyes over me, thinking about running your hands over me. Probably remembering a time you wanked over the same fantasy – Australia, I’d say, going by the song that’s playing and your recollection of our case down there – and you were having quite a nice shiver at the memory when that burst of water brought you to your utterly ridiculous senses and you tensed-up and (quite falsely) recalled this is all fake and that I’m not really looking at you with lust and desire, but am appropriating a mirage in order to fool some hitherto unknown criminal lurking out there somewhere in order to work a case.” He draws in a much needed breath. “A case which…” and here The Voice lowers even more, “…doesn’t…exissst”.

While he had been speaking, Sherlock had edged closer and closer to a stupefied John, slipping his hands onto John’s arse, pulling him close to his undulating hips. John edges his shoulders back to focus on Sherlock’s face.

“No case?”

“No case.”

Pause.

“At all?”

“Nope.”

“But-“

“John, I have been waiting and waiting for you to make a move. To give me some kind of sign. To ask me if I’m interested. To-“ he interrupts himself. “John, do you know how frustrating it is to suspect your attraction, read your micro-expressions, see your lustful thoughts, and yet month after month, no bloody move?”

“But you said you were marri-“

“John, do you know how many times I’ve regretted saying that? About seventy five times a day, from three hours after I said it. Running across rooftops with you was more exciting than ANYTHING I’d ever done with another living person until then. I immediately wanted to take it back but I thought your natural tenacity would override the need. Your fortitude and persistence with women, despite my every effort at sabotage, I thought, would mean you would try again, negating my need to retract that detestable statement, but no. Your stubbornness worked against me, and thus, I am forced to admit I was an idiot. A huge, ridiculous idiot! I regret ever uttering that hateful statement that stopped you thinking of me as a sexual being, as someone who might want to be with you….. As someone who might have a chance with you.”

John just stares, mouth agape, swaying to Sherlock’s lead.

“John?”

“Mmmmn?” John stares at that little ball, nestled under Sherlock’s lip. His tongue darts out to moisten his own lips. Sherlock groans.

“Jooohhn. I fancy you something rotten. I simply can not go another day without my lips on you. Can we please go home and shag ourselves stupid?”

“I-“

“That is, unless you’re still clinging to that whole, ‘not gay’ thing…?”

“Uuuuhh…”

Sherlock, starting to panic that he hadn’t done enough to seduce the pants off John, renews his efforts at seduction. Releasing John’s arse, he slides his hands to his hips and spins him around. John flails his arms out for balance and Sherlock takes the opportunity to crowd him from behind, snaking his arms under John’s, thrusting his knee between John’s thighs, rolling his hips to the beat until his entire thigh insinuates itself up against John’s balls.

_Poetry in your body_  
_Got it started, may it never end_  
_Feel my rhythm in your system_  
_This is heaven, I'm your only friend_

Oh God. John’s brain is caught between Sia’s throaty voice and Sherlock’s rolling hips. This _is_ heaven, and John is going to grab it.

“Sherlock.”

John feels those exquisite lips touch his ear again, a nose nuzzles across his tragus, “Mmmm?”

“Take me home. Now.”

The detective doesn’t even reply. Once again John is yanked by the hand, this time _away_ from the dance floor and toward the coatroom. His arms are stuffed into his jacket unceremoniously, and cold air hits his face as he is thrust through the door of the club toward a magically waiting cab.


	3. Chapter 3

### Chapter Three: Intermezzo

#### The Cab

It is impossible to think with Sherlock all up in his space. His nearness, his focus, his warmth, his fragrance are intoxicating. After all this time John is finally facing the very real possibility – it would seem, certainty - of intimacy with Sherlock. He feels overwhelmed. In the warmth of the cab Sherlock snuggles close, drifting that pierced lip over John’s neck, sipping at his skin, tasting and no doubt, cataloguing a million different factors, filing them away for future data mining. A terrible thought occurs to John. What if this is just-

“No.”

“Huh?”

“No, this is not just an experiment, John.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“John, please let me assure you that if it was only data I was after, I could have picked up any random for that.”

“Well what ARE you after, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stills. He stares intently, searching for something unknown to John. After about a million thundering heartbeats, his face relaxes into something more open and vulnerable than John has ever witnessed. “You, John. Just you.”

“What, just…sating your curios-“

“Wholly and completely, John.”

“You want _more_ than one night?”

A beat. “Yes.”

“You want…a relationship?”

“…Yes?”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock! That sounds confident!”

“I-“

John reaches up to grip purple hair, tugging Sherlock’s face into closer proximity to his. “Sherlock, if you are toying with me…”

“No! John, I am completely sincere. I will admit to manipulating you _slightly_ with the tight clothing and music and everything, but it was all in aid of a desperate, final attempt at cracking your resolve. To attract you to me. To see if you might…want me enough to…to go for it. Uggggghhhh!” Sherlock tugs at his own hair in frustration. “John, you’re making me crazy and there’s only so much a man can take! Of course I want a relationship! I just don’t want to push for more than you want to give and I’m frightened I’ve misjudged and I’ll scare you off completely!”

John looks at Sherlock. Agitated, he’d wiggled around until his leg was bent up on the seat and his gossamer shirt was worked up, exposing the abs that are heaving with his quick, panting breaths. John places a calming hand on his stomach, another on his chest, over his heart. “Look at me, Sherlock.”

The stricken man raises his eyes to John’s. “I’m not easily scared-off, Sherlock, just in case you hadn’t noticed.” He sighs. “Did you really set up that song in the club?”

“Yes.”

John thinks of Sydney. “How on earth did you know it would trigger-“

“You’re not that quiet, John. I had the adjacent room.”

“Oh. I’m mortified. Obviously.”

The cab turns into their street.

“The piercings?”

“I’ve observed all of your reactions to stimulus over a very long time, John. I applied to myself, the top ten things that received the highest recurring reactions in order to maximise my chance of success.”

“TEN?!”

“Yes. Tight clothing - tight enough to hug my arse, and sheer enough to show my torso, areas your eyes are often drawn to - tinted hair, fuck-off boots, eyeliner, a scent by Bulgari, four types of piercings, and a confident attitude.” Sherlock hesitates. “The blatant, sensual dancing to That Song was added as a sweetener.” John could hear the capitals. “I feel a bit nostalgic over that song to be honest. It was the first time I was entirely sure of your attraction. When she sang it you were quite unaware that you were staring at me the whole time,” he ventures wistfully.

“I still can’t believe the DJ was in on- Hang on. _Four_ types of piercings? Surely you mean three.” John points to Sherlock’s brow, nose and lip. The git lifts one corner of his mouth, his confidence back in a big way.

“No John,” Sherlock murmurs, “I mean four.”

“Where…”

Sherlock covers the hand over his heart and slides it down his chest until it hits a little bump in the road. A bump much firmer than a simple nipple could possibly be. His breath stops. Completely.

The cab jolts to a stop. “OK lovebirds, who’s payin’ fer this?” grunts the cabbie.

“I think I am,” John whispers. “For being way too transparent.” He pushes a handful of notes toward the front of the cab and looks at Sherlock. “Come on, you. Let’s get upstairs. I want to unwrap my new boyfriend.”

Sherlock beams at John before slithering from the cab, leaving John to follow dazedly in his wake.


	4. Chapter 4

### Chapter Four: Symphony

#### The Bedroom

Sherlock hums as they ascend the stairs, coats over their arms. John goggles at the luscious bottom in front of him as it sways from side to side as Sherlock climbs. ”God Sherlock. _You’re_ the bloody poetry, you know. The way you were moving your body on that dance floor was poetry in every sense of the word”

The lanky, sinuous gazelle simpers at John over his shoulder. He starts singing the chorus softly, running his hands down his sides, over the torn shirt back, stopping at his undulating arse cheeks,

_Your body's poetry, speak to me_  
_Won't you let me be the rhythm tonight?_  
_Move your body, move your body_  
_I wanna be your muse, use my music_  
_And let me be your rhythm tonight_  
_Move your body, move your body_

“Oh God.”

“Is this what you imagined, John, when you heard that song in Sydney? Did you picture me running my hands over my body, or over yours?”

A whimper escapes John’s throat. Sherlock isn’t wrong about his top ten. His confident attitude is indeed, making John crazy for him. He wonders how far he’ll take it. Knowing Sherlock, way past decency and beyond. The thought inspires a smile.

 

The moment the pair are through the door, John takes a deep breath and tries to settle his nerves. Just the thought of getting his hands on Sherlock is mind blowing, so he’s going to have to put his libido on lock-down in order to focus. He wants this to be something more than just fucking, just lust-filled sex. More than something Sherlock could get from anyone in that club. More than something _John_ could get from anyone in that club. He wants to start as he means to go on. And he means to keep Sherlock. He means to keep that gorgeous, wild thing in a constant state of bloom.

“Hang up our coats, Sherlock,” he instructed.

“What?”

“You heard me. Here, hang them up.”

Sherlock tilts his head, darting his eyes over John. John waits, allowing Sherlock to process whatever he observes. Slowly, Sherlock’s hand comes out for the coat and he hangs them both on the rack. His arm drops and he settles in front of John, waiting.

John reaches out and gently runs a hand down Sherlock’s arm, grasping his hand and pulling it in, centring it on his chest. “I know you’ve orchestrated everything that’s happened so far tonight,” he soothes, “but from here on in, we’re going to work as a team, OK?” He watches Sherlock, contemplating his reaction. If he doesn’t start-off on the right foot, Sherlock will walk all over him ‘til the end of time.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, slightly unsurely, “to be honest…well…I’d planned out everything up until this point, where it suddenly gets all kind of vaguely hot and sweaty. I’ve imagined so many ways things could go that it’s all a bit of a kaleidoscope of limbs and lips, and that confident attitude you like would only get me to _this_ point in my head so I guess I was hoping you’d just take over…” he trails-off.

John gazes at newly-minted boyfriend. He’s never heard Sherlock dwindle-off. Sherlock always makes Statements with a capital S. To see him unsure and slightly bewildered is disconcerting, but to know he feels comfortable enough to expose that in front of _him_ gives John the confidence he needs to continue.

“No, Sherlock. No one’s going to take over. I mean, if, in time, that’s something we want to try…” John can feel his face heat, “then I’m not against that, but for now, we’re going to be in this together. No one leads, no one follows, just two people who love each other being together, OK? Besides, I have a feeling you’ll be quite a bit more…” he gestures between them, “advanced than I in these matters, having only heterosexual practical experience to this point.”

“John,” Sherlock breathes, wide-eyed, “my John.” The Fingers stroke John’s cheek. “I know I calculated everything perfectly, but I still can’t believe it worked. That I’m here, touching you, hearing you say you love me.” Sherlock looks slightly startled.

“Of course I love you, you bloody great giraffe. And you love me – you must, to have gone to all this trouble,” he laughs, touching the lip ring reverently. “So come on – let’s get naked.” He grabs Sherlock’s arse cheek and pushes it toward the giraffe’s bedroom. “In here’s okay?” 

Sherlock nods, meekly moving through the door, arse-wiggling abandoned for now. John follows, closing the door tight, and turns to find Sherlock kicking off his shoes. He removes his quickly, too, before stepping into Sherlock’s sphere. “Here, let me…” John skims open the buttons fastening Sherlock’s cobweb-fine shirt, holding his gaze. As the last button slides free John ever-so-slowly peels back the left-hand side, and allows himself to glance down. He draws in a sharp breath at the sight of a snug, glistening little bar piercing. John smiles to see it’s not just any ordinary bar, but a custom job; a wee striped bee at one end, six tiny off-set honeycomb hexagons at the other. Pouting between is Sherlock’s rosy nipple, raised and proud, begging for attention. “How long have you had this?” John croons, touching his little finger to it, mesmerised at the skin’s reaction to his caress.

“A-about two hours after I observed your reaction to the one d-decorating that exotic dancer in the smuggling case last month. John please…”

“Please, what, Sherlock?” John watches from under his lashes as Sherlock pants, his chest straining for John’s touch. “Hmmm. Would you like me to… _lick?_ ” John matches word with action and sways forward to tap his tongue lightly against his lover’s nipple. The skin ruches tightly, bewitching him. He taps again, forcing a small moan from Sherlock. Oh. What a lovely sound. He swipes a lick with the flat of his tongue this time, hoping for a longer sound and is rewarded with a moan that John feels in his core. “God, Sherlock. Even the sounds you make get me hot! Let me hear you. I want to know what makes you feel good.”

“Good? _Good?!_ John, I know that _anything_ you do to me will feel exquisite. Observe!” He gestures to his straining chest. “My body begs for your attention,” points to his ruckled nipple, “my skin craves your touch. How can any touch you bestow upon me feel anything other than superb?” he chides.

John is halted by Sherlock’s sincerity, at the typically (when it comes to _feelings_ ) reticent man’s candour. A dizzying flush rises up over him at the trust once again displayed. He falls upon Sherlock, stripping the shirt away completely and running his palms over the smooth expanse of skin. _All this is mine to play with! Mine, from this moment forth!_ He presses his lips to the centre of Sherlock’s chest, tracing little nips and licks across his skin. He drags his mouth across the ivory column of his neck, stopping to nuzzle into the corded muscle as Sherlock tilts his head in encouragement. Sweet sounds fall from his lover’s lips as he blindly reaches for Sherlock’s hands and places them on his hips, encouraging him to reciprocate. “Touch me too, Sherlock,” he gasps. 

Sherlock drags those long, supple fingers up John’s back, eliciting a shiver. He feels his ridiculously tight shirt being dragged out of his trousers and the action being repeated, only this time from underneath the fabric. “Oh Joohn. I can feel the horripilation of your skin!”

“Jesus, Sherlock. If you can still think of words like that then I’m not doing my job properly.”

Sherlock employs The Voice. “Then you’d better try _harder,_ John.”

“Christ.”

John gets to shucking his shirt, and sits on the edge of the bed to remove his socks. He quickly undoes his belt and trouser button before beckoning Sherlock to him. “Come here, gorgeous. I want to finish unwrapping you.”

Sherlock prowls closer to John, nudging in between his legs. John grips Sherlock’s hips and leans forward to ghost his nose across the golden trail of hair under his navel. He gifts a kiss to his belly before fumbling clumsily with the belt buckle. “Shit!” He hears a puff of a snort from above and mutters, “shut up. I’m trying to be seductive.”

“Carry on…”

“Hmph.”

He slides the button through the slit and lowers the zipper – not an easy feat on jeans this tight – and hears Sherlock sigh in relief as his cock falls out, heavy and full. _Fucking hell!_ A lovelier, more alluring cock John has never seen. Long and generous, blushing with distension, the rosy head cradles a lustrous drop of essence. For the first time in his life John finds himself aching to taste. It seems Sherlock is destined to claim so many of John’s firsts. No! Not firsts - _Onlys._ From now on, Sherlock will be his _only._ The thought forces a growl from John’s throat as he lunges to capture the head between his lips, suckling gently and running his tongue across the slit.

“Huhngh!” Hands clamp onto John’s head, clenching at his hair. He pulls back to run his tongue over the roof of his mouth, savouring the elemental tang of Sherlock. Before he can lean back in his head is dragged back to the job.

“Bossy,” he sniggers, gusting his breath over the head of Sherlock’s lovely cock.

_“JohnJohnJohn!”_

“Oh that’s better. Words of one syllable, now. I’ll have you on straight noises, soon,” he teases.

“Grrrrrrrrgh”

“That’s it.”

John brushes a kiss to the sticky slit before dampening his lips and sliding Sherlock’s length inside his mouth. He can only make it about half-way down comfortably, at first. The feeling of being so full of Sherlock is a headrush. He gentles his twitching lover with soft strokes over his hips as he slides almost all the way back, before sinking down again, a tiny bit further. “Mmmmmn.” He can’t help himself. Muffled sounds emanate around Sherlock’s cock, buzzing his lips and fuelling his ardour as he undulates rhythmically. He can hear Sherlock’s breath catching, feel his body fluttering as John coaxes his pleasure forth. Ironically, he feels more masterful than he’s ever felt with a lover. Probably because he’s never felt as wanted, as desired as he feels right now with Sherlock. Sherlock’s guileless, uncontrived reactions speak directly to John’s heart which seems currently linked to his libido, and it’s all rushing in to crowd his thoughts with, _Claim!Now!He’sthereforthetaking!Beforesomeotherbastardcomesalong!Claim!_

John takes one last, long suck and smiles as he hears a soft whine. He gently pushes Sherlock back enough to stand, grip his hips and reverse their positions. “Lay back on the bed, gorgeous.” Sherlock reclines languidly, throwing one arm above his head, running the other down his stomach provocatively. “God, you’re a picture. Look at you," he marvels. "You’re fucking enchanting.” He reaches under Sherlock and peels his jeans down the endless legs, stripping his socks too, until his sweetheart is completely bare. He eyes the piercings glinting in the ambient light, winking at him in invitation. “I’m dying to kiss you, but I don’t want to hurt your mouth.”

“Is that why you haven’t kissed me yet?! John, I can assure you, I’m feeling no pain right now.”

“But you had to have had them done only today. They must’ve told you not to-“

“John. Get those trousers off, then get down here and kiss me _right now._ ”

“Oh God”

Clothing launches over John’s shoulder as he complies. He checks himself and pauses for a moment, standing patiently at ease before the bed, offering Sherlock a chance to study what he beholds. Regardless of Sherlock’s impatience, John knows he will need to observe and inspect. He holds for another breath before his body decides any further scrutinising can wait until later. He circles Sherlock’s ankle, thumbing the hollow alongside his Achilles. He sees the hairs rise on his shin. “Goose pimples.”

“Mmmmn. Fewer syllables than that other word I’ve quite forgotten.”

John chuffs a laugh as he parts Sherlock’s legs and settles between them, supporting his weight on his arms, either side of Sherlock’s shoulders. The position presses their cocks together, and every breath has them slipping and sliding against each other in delicious friction. Sherlock bends a leg, pressing it to John’s hip, gathering him in closer. John stills and looks down at Sherlock, lets his eyes fall to the plump, lush bow and, unable to wait another second, lowers his head to sip sip sip at the offerings. He inches back to check in on him and breathes in reverence at the intimacy of the moment. Sherlock is gazing up at him, eyes wide, pupils blown, the fingers of one hand twitching in the air beside his head. He leans in again, offering something longer, sweeter, swiping a quick little lick along the seam of Sherlock’s lips before pressing and retreating. 

The fingers are still twitching away as Sherlock stares through John, in his own world. John leans to the side, soothing kisses down Sherlock’s jaw. Little pecked gifts, dotting along his neck until he reaches twin freckles, spaced like a snake bite, the only thing breaking up the perfect expanse of ivory skin. He licks over the marks, swirling his tongue over the tiny spots, thinking of them as the first items in his new Sherlock register. As he’s filing them away he’s struck with a realisation: Sherlock’s twitching fingers are cataloguing data. He smiles into Sherlock’s skin. He’s going to make the gorgeous git build an entire new wing for all the things John’s going to do to him. Starting now.

He moves off to the side. “Turn over, love.”

“Hngh?”

He pats Sherlock’s hip softly. “Turn onto your tummy for me.”

Sherlock blinks a few times before peaceably rolling and settling, turning his face to the side. John straddles Sherlock’s thighs and smooths his hands over the acres of perfect skin before him, before letting his lips meander a lazy path from neck to buttock. He mentally maps the occasional freckle, marking the little beauty spots with a lick and a kiss, each too important to gloss over. 

John’s focus is such that he gets lost in his labour of love, investigating armpits, the dip of a waist, the hollow of the small of his back. Everything is tasted, sniffed and kissed until Sherlock is a trembling mess. When John moves down to the crease of his buttocks, his sweetheart squirms in anticipation. He flutters a soft lick in the cleft, teasing his breath over the new moistness there. Sherlock gasps and pushes his hips off the bed, bowing his back to chase John’s caress. John gives it happily, licking again, deeper and longer, seeking Sherlock’s taste with his tongue. He’s rewarded with captivating noises of pleasure, urging him on to further passion. John sits back on his heels, freeing his hands to tenderly part Sherlock’s cheeks so that he might burrow closer closer, nose deeper into the most personal of intimacies. John falls, without hesitation, astonished somewhere in the back of his mind that he has no objection to this most louche, private act. He revels in Sherlock’s complete surrender, indeed, in his _own_ , matching or perhaps surpassing Sherlock’s, considering John’s usual, orthodox sexuality. _Well that’s blown that out the window. Nothing like swirling your tongue in a sexy bloke’s arse to make you re-think your world view._

“Jaaawn, why are you stopping?!” Sherlock slurs.

“Sorry,” John pats a pale thigh absently, “just quietly having an epiphany.”

“Yes, John. This is quite gay.”

“Mmm. It is, isn’t it.”

“Problem?”

“Nope,” he responds, popping the ‘p’ in honour of his beloved.

“Then shove back so I can sit up. I want to kiss you again.”

“Sherlock, I don’t think that’s a ver- Mmph!”

As they kneel facing each other, quick pecks are dropped onto John’s lips. “As if I’d be bothered.” Peck. “If _you’re_ happy enough to go there,” peck, “why wouldn’t _I_ be okay with kissing you afterwards!” More kisses are bestowed upon John’s grinning mouth, longer and gentler, until he finds himself tenderly sucking on Sherlock’s bottom lip, feeling the wee ball and ring click against his teeth.

“Tell me you’re going to keep this,” he pants, staring fixedly at the metal hoop. “Please.”

Sherlock smirks. “I knew it was a winner.”

“God yes, SO yes.”

“Lay back against the headboard, John.”

John’s mouth moves without sound. Sherlock raises The Brow at him until he scuttles up the bed to settle against the headboard. He gains a lapful of lusciousness, and John automatically bends his knees so that his man might settle back against them. God. Sherlock _is_ his man. Does Sherlock realise this? His fingers tighten around plush arse cheeks as he frets over this newest concern. He hears a very put-upon sign.

“Yes, John. I consider myself ‘claimed’. I am yours, lock, stock and barrel. It’s only fair I inform you that you also, are similarly ‘claimed’. By me. To have and to hold, to scrutinise and inspect, to experiment on in the absence of a more stimulating subject…”

“More stimulating!” John squawks. 

Sherlock gathers a small section of skin between his teeth, nipping gently at John’s chest and soothing away the sting with a lick. He peers coyly up at John, “Well, you know, I did say when I met you, running about London was more exciting that anything I’d done with any _living_ person before, John.” He leaves a beat. “That may preclude any non-living thing…”

“You cheeky fucker! Come ‘ere.”

Sherlock laughs and moves swiftly into John’s arms, snuggling in, and it feels more right to John than anything ever has before. This man was meant to be in his arms, was meant to be his to cherish. He’s abruptly overcome with affection and tenderness for this brilliant, vulnerable being. A being who is squirming in his lap, driving him to distraction. He tries to lay still and let Sherlock explore as he wishes but the wriggling of plump arse cheeks over his extremely neglected cock is too much to bear. He grabs the lovely handfuls and squeezes and kneads until a moan erupts from his lover’s chest. “John, please, there’s lube in the second drawer. Please put it to good use.”

John retrieves the lubricant, grabs Sherlock’s hand, and squeezes out a generous puddle into his cupped palm. He dips two fingers in and swirls them about in an attempt to warm the gel slightly. “Keep that steady,” he whispers, as he draws Sherlock forward to lean against his chest. He reaches around to touch his fingers to where he’d been lapping earlier, circling and swirling against the tight furl until he feels Sherlock relax. He reaches back to re-dip his fingers, only to find Sherlock’s arm slumped against the headboard, lubricant rivulets streaming down his forearm. He smiles and runs the side of his finger along the pathways, gathering as much as he can and returning to the warmth of Sherlock’s cleft. He circles again before softly pushing in a little. Sherlock just moans, utterly still and pliant against John’s chest, the fluttering around his finger the only movement he can feel. 

Sherlock is burning up inside, John’s finger snug in the tight channel, his other hand petting along Sherlock’s back. He cautiously pulls out a little before pushing back in, deeper than before and draws a shudder from his beloved. John works his finger slowly, slowly, never giving too much, keeping it easy until time floats by and Sherlock starts to grind back against his hand. When he’s up to three fingers, it gets a little difficult to keep the angle right, and Sherlock is getting more demanding with his undulations.

John tenderly removes his fingers and pats Sherlock on the bum. “Hey, love, time to move.”

“Do I have to, John?” is pressed into John’s neck.

“Only if you want to keep going.”

“Ugh. Tyrant.”

“Yep. But I’m _your_ tyrant.”

Sherlock brightens, “Mmmmmmm.”

“Lift up a little, love, I need to get-“

“You know my methods, John. I know there’s no need for protection. What’s more, I have no wish to be separated from you.”

Knowing how Sherlock hates to repeat himself, John doesn’t bother asking if he’s sure. “Run that sticky hand over me, gorgeous.”

Sherlock curls his wet fingers and glides them down John’s length, lazily jacking him, staring fixedly at the sight as if overawed by what’s about to invade him.

“It’ll fit.”

“I’m not-“

“Don’t bluff me, Sherlock. It’s going to be aaalll good.”

Sherlock grins and shuffles on his knees until he’s hovering over John. John holds his lover’s hips steady as Sherlock guides John’s restless, twitching cock against himself. John watches, hypnotised, as Sherlock lets go and places his hands on John’s shoulders, arms quite bent so he can lean in to buss John quickly and nuzzle their noses together. John can feel the piercing rub coldly against the edge of his nostril. It’s oddly erotic. Sherlock rests their foreheads together as he ever-so-slowly, lowers down down down to make them one. They’re both panting like mad; dotted with sweat. John experiences the exquisite clutch and heat of Sherlock, and thinks it’s all going to be over in seconds. 

“Aaaaaaaaaahhh Jawn, Don’t. You. _Dare._ ”

“Hm?”

“Head in the fridge. Livers in the crisper. A bag full of fingers. Syphilitic-“

“What the bollocking hell, Sherlock?!”

“I could tell you were going to take an early bow, and I wasn’t sure of your thoughts on encores, so I forestalled you with distraction.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. Could you have used another method?”

“Well I guess I could have reached around and pulled on your balls…”

John’s brows shot to his hairline. “Livers it is,” he deadpans.

They break out in a giggle until both gasp at the effect on tender places. “Can I move yet, John?”

John jerks a mini thrust up into Sherlock in response. “Bloody hell, you feel so good inside me, John.” Sherlock starts to rock, undulating on his lap. His movements get stronger and multidirectional. John watches him dance, breathless with wonder. The figure of eight movements from the club make an appearance, forging a dirty grind across his pelvis. 

He reaches up to stroke Sherlock’s nipple, licking his other palm and wrapping it around Sherlock’s beautiful cock. He’s never thought of a cock as beautiful before. It’s not a thing he’s even associated with the phrases _passably attractive,_ or _mildly interesting,_ and yet Sherlock’s is thoroughly alluring. In every possible way. Like the man connected to it. He looks up as Sherlock edges back to watch John’s hand. Sherlock’s now rolling his hips in vertical eights and John is going off his tree. He’s trying to keep hold of Sherlock’s cock and his own control but he’s losing the battle with the latter. His gorgeous thing grinds and thrashes above him, tipping his head back to groan long and loud at the ceiling, and John can feel it in his fingers as he slides them up and over his throat.

“That’s it, sweetheart; take what you want. Make it feel good.”

“Oh God, John. It's so…” He tips his head back down to ensnare John in his gaze.

“I know. I know, love.”

“It’s amaaaazing, Jawn. You’re amazing,” he whispers fiercely. 

It’s too much. No one can take this much… this much… Ugh! Enjoyment?Pleasure?Emotion?Sentiment? Intimacy.

_Intimacy._

He closes his eyes and draws in as much breath as he can, sampling the air for their scent, drawing the very marrow of their pairing out of the air and into his lungs where he can hold it deep within. His eyelids fill with sparkles as his lungs beg for release. He opens his eyes and sees Sherlock watching him. Without a word, Sherlock leans in and covers John’s mouth with his own, coaxing it open, and takes John’s exhalation for his own. 

That’s all she wrote. “Sherlock, please, tell me you’re close!” he grits out.

“Oh JohnJohnJohn just a tiny bit _more._

John grunts and performs the miracle of holding on for another four thrusts before he blessedly feels Sherlock clamp down and keen. He thumbs Sherlock’s cheek with a trembling hand, and watches as Sherlock spurts his climax across John’s chest, wide eyes locked on his. Another two thrusts and he’s flying, muscles straining, chest heaving, hearing nothing and feeling everything.

Sherlock slumps against his chest and John immediately brings his legs in a little more to stop from slipping out of him. He doesn’t want to lose the connection yet. “Mmmm, John. Indescribable," he garbles into John's neck. "It’ll take aaages t’ sort ‘n’ catalogue all that."

“Indeed,” he smiles. He pets down Sherlock’s back as he closes his eyes and enjoys the feeling of his beautiful lover, quiescent in his arms. 

“I may need t' research f'rther. I could test out items eleven through tw'nty-five on you.”

“Ah well, that’s the beauty of a lock, stock and barrel arrangement, Sherlock," he grins gently as he strokes. "It means you can experiment to your heart’s content, love. Or at least until you run out of stimulus.”

“Hmph," Sherlock mumbles. "John, what've I told you 'bout eliminating the impossible?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! Hope you enjoyed it. Just out of interest, that nipple piercing is real. I found it online. If I had any idea how to put a picture here I'd do it, as I saved a copy. Thanks to all who read and enjoy enough to kudos or comment. It's really exciting to hear from you. Makes my needy heart sing.


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